Page 156 of Mates for the Raskarrans #1-6

“What does that even mean?” Larzon again with his sharpness.

My headspace starts to pulse with it, the buzzing rising once more at the edges of my awareness.

I think on my Carrie’s smile, recall the shape of it.

The way it played across her soft lips. But there is only so much even this memory can do to keep my irritation at bay.

I am far past my tolerance for interaction today.

“It means that even when Rachel brought Vantos the gift of dead flowers, his heartspace still yearned for her with fierceness beyond all reason,” Rardek says, laughing.

As Darsha and Paskar pick up the tale of Rachel’s flowers, laughing much at the misunderstanding between Vantos and the female who would become his linasha, I turn from the gathering, rising to my feet.

Only Shemza seems to notice, drawn from the conversation he is having with Darran’s healer to glance in my direction.

I nod to him, and he nods back, gaze full of understanding, before turning back to his discussion.

I go to the leftover food, picking up a bowl and filling it with broth. I grab one of the herb buns to go with it, carrying them with me to the healer’s hut, knocking on the door before letting myself in.

Callif is sitting propped up in his sickbed, his skin still a terrible colour - no vitality in him. His eyelids flicker at the sound of my footsteps, before he opens them with some effort, as if some sticky sap has glued them.

“You have taken pity on me, here all alone in this hut,” he says, his voice a wheeze.

I shake my head, glancing back over my shoulder, allowing my distaste to fill my expression.

Callif gives a small coughing laugh, putting a hand to his stomach as he grimaces in pain immediately afterward.

“At least I know you do not lie to save my ego in this,” he says.

I draw a seat up next to his bed, holding out the bowl to him.

He takes the spoon I hand him, but I have to hold the bowl close to his mouth before he can scoop the broth to his lips, his arms, once strong enough to draw back the toughest of bowstrings, now feeble thanks to his wound.

All his strength goes to his healing, leaving little for the rest of him.

“Hannah improves in her skill all the time,” Callif says, looking at the herb bun with regret, his appetite apparently too small for even this scant meal I have delivered.

I nod my agreement with some wariness, but Callif turns his gaze in the direction of the central fire, a sigh escaping his lips.

“I hope she finds her mate among Darran’s tribe and is very happy.”

I gesture to the bowl of unfinished broth, wishing to distract him from unhappy thoughts.

It would not aid in his healing for him to be saddened.

He takes another few mouthfuls, his hand growing more shaky with each raise of his spoon to his lips.

Then he sets it down in the bowl, pushing it lightly away.

I put it down for now, hoping that he will eat the rest when he has had some time to recover from this very small exertion.

I would feed him, if I thought he would accept it, but Callif’s pride has been cut too deeply by his injury.

He would not suffer my ministrations. If he had a mate, perhaps…

but there is no female in our tribe for Callif.

“Do you think one of the females is yours?” he asks, as if he can sense the direction of my thoughts.

I glance over my shoulder toward the central fire, as if I could see through the wood of the healer’s hut walls.

“I have heard much of your discussions. Darran’s brothers are eager to understand how our sisters’ headspaces work.”

An eagerness he once shared. He learned the futility of it the hard way.

“Larzon…” I say, trying to frame the words carefully in my headspace.

Callif beats me to it.

“He is the angry sounding one, yes? Do not be too hard on him, brother, I know how he feels in his heartspace.”

I shake my head. Callif has been eager in his pursuit of a linasha, but never angry.

“It is the way my heartspace goes now as I lie in this bed, knowing none of those females out there are meant for me. He fears it too, I think.”

I wonder whether the many hours with nothing to do but think and endure his injuries have done what I would have considered impossible and made Callif wise.

“You did not answer my question,” he says after a moment.

I arch a brow at him, though I have not forgotten it.

“The fact that you are reluctant to answer tells me the answer is ‘yes’.”

“I am always reluctant,” I say.

“Quicker and simpler to say ‘no’ than to evade my questions, but you are no liar. So the answer is ‘yes’, and you do not wish to speak on it. Because you pity a poor fool like me who does not see his linasha among our sisters?”

I do not answer. I do not know what I can say that would not inflict some injury of the spirit on him.

Callif sits up a little straighter, adjusting himself so he can look down on me, his gaze carrying a weight of seriousness that he does not normally have about him.

“If there is a female who captures your heartspace the way that Rachel did for Vantos, or Lorna did for Shemza, then you must claim her.”

I shake my head, but Callif waves off my protest.

“Think on it, Endzoh. There are many males in the tribe now. More yet to come. Perhaps some of our sisters will find their true mate, perhaps they will not. If she is your true mate, she will not join in the dreamspace with another. But humans do not choose their mates this way. How many seasons do you think will pass before those unmated decide to choose one of us using their ways? When they see their sisters doted on by their mates… The elders might teach us that no raskarran wants any female except his mate, but these are not the sunsets they once knew. Do you think Darsha or Paskar would not welcome one of the females into their pelts if they came willingly? Do you think Darran’s brothers would not? ”

I think of Larzon and his hungry stares.

That male would accept any female who gave him even a hint of interest. It goes against everything we have been taught, but so does joining in the dreamspace after so much time has passed.

I think many of my brothers, old and new, could convince themselves that a female was their mate, that the bond just had not formed yet, if it meant they were not alone.

And Callif is right. The human females might find such an arrangement normal. Agreeable, even.

“Could you stand to see your female with another?” Callif says, leaning forward as much as his injury allows.

I think of my Carrie. If she mates to another, that is one thing. It is Lina’s blessing - who am I to go against the wishes of my goddess? But if she were to go to another’s pelts not as mates? The thought makes my stomach churn with rage and horror.

“Our tribe is changing, Endzoh,” Callif says, and there is a bitterness to his words that cuts at me. I do not like to hear him so twisted by it. “These females have changed it.”

“For the better,” I remind him, trying to make my voice soft and agreeable.

I am not sure if it works or if Callif’s ire has simply worn him out past his ability to argue with me. He sighs, sinking back into his pelts, his eyes growing heavy. He does not fight to keep them open.

I think he is asleep as I stoop to collect his half-eaten broth, his uneaten bun, and head to the door, but he has some parting advice for me.

“Claim her, Endzoh. Before it is too late.”

His words are like stones in my pockets as I make my way to my hut.